Monday, 28 October 2013

Tell Me You're Somewhere.

I wish I could go back in time to Tuesday morning a few weeks ago and slip into Cams flat and walk up to him lying on the floor and lift his gas mask, just for one more kiss. Just to see his eyes, just to cry my tears on his face and then put his mask back on and dart out.

Then I'd go back in time to a hot day in December 1988 .... open up  a white car strangely idling but not going anywhere. I'd wrench the door open and cough at the carbon monoxide and scream:


Then I'd slam that fucking door and wait for the cops to come to our front door and tell us he was dead. Camerons life was shadowed by the suicide of his father.

Dave and I drove straight to mum the other week, to tell her the worst news any parent can hear.

Just one last time, Mum and I had to see him. So we booked one more appointment with the morgue because HE WAS IN THE MORGUE WHAT.

The people there are SO respectful and hushed and caring. We went in together. This time I could face touching him because it was the last chance I'd ever get. His forehead was defrosting. His hands looked like wax. His chest hair looked ridiculous for some reason. He was still handsome .. even the coroner said so. I wished we could take him home. I wanted to pry his eyes open. Mum gave me time alone with him and I just said:

"Mate, you did it sweetheart. I was trying so hard for you not to do it. Haunt me, ok?"

We had a wake with his friends, oh my god his friends. SO BEAUTIFUL, every last one. Ryan, Dave, Stu, Brad, Matt. And so many more. I want to move down to Sydney and join their circle and just talk about Cam for the rest of our lives. Because that's healthy. All of their milestones are going to happen - weddings, babies, special events. I did a bit of an impromptu speech at the wake. The wake of beer and cheese and bacon balls. I asked them to please never forget him. Can't remember what else I said ... that Cam was a grown man and made his own decision about life. That we love him. We love him. And life is fragile.

Dave and I picked up Cams ashes last Friday. The soft, muted tones of the funeral parlour. Straight away we asked where the toilet was. The whole place smelt like pot pourri. The lighting was dimmed. The lady was lovely. And all I wanted to do was tear the place apart with my hands. How DARE I be here, picking up my baby brothers ashes. She stood there talking to me while I held the heavy bag and I nodded and answered her boring questions instead of falling to the ground, wailing. That's what people do ... get on with things, answer questions, go through the motions. Then fall apart at appropriate times.

Or, some people just hold it in all of their lives and never let anything out.

I let them out. Can't help it. I'll be letting this out for a long, long time. Maybe even always, and that's alright by me.

How can I stand at a stove and cook a meal? How can I purchase a big bag of toilet paper at the checkout? How can the world even spin? Lucky grief comes in spurts, in, out. Or else the bereaved would never get out of bed.

Cam ya fucken raconteur - where'd you end up? Anywhere? You broke a lot of hearts when you left. I had no idea how well you could pull the chicks! You looked weird when you were dead. Your mates rock. I did everything you asked me too ... I stood up for you and I respected your decisions.

Now do something for me: you KNOW you owe me. Come back and haunt me. Tell me you're somewhere. Tell me you love me. Tell me it's going to be ok. I don't want you to be gone just yet. Nobody was ready.

It hurts more than my mind can stand. I love you. We love you.

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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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